


a thanksgiving feeling

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Making Perfect Season 2, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Something changes between them in the time between New York to Colorado and Colorado to Cape Cod. It's Thanksgiving in September and the holidays seem as good a time as any to take a leap of faith.(Or, that time Brad and Claire admitted they were in love in Cape Cod.)





	a thanksgiving feeling

**Author's Note:**

> lowkey spoilers for making perfect s2 pie episode and thanksgiving episode (which, y'all, when you watch it....you just aren't ready for them).

Somewhere over the continental US, something changes between them. There’s a couple of boxed pies nestled between their feet—pecan-pumpkin between hers and sour cherry between his (she pointedly ignores where he’s scribbled in his own addition to the bright green tape: _half_-sour cherry). 

“Will you relax,” Brad murmurs in her ear, noting the way she keeps shifting in her seat, eyes dropping to the pies worriedly with every turbulence shift. “They’re gonna be _fine,_ Claire. Just kick back, eat your peanuts, and enjoy the ride.”

But Claire _can’t_ relax. She’s not the best flyer on the best of days, but today especially is hard. Competitive nerves buzz in her veins, butterflies erupting in her stomach at the thought of what awaits them in Colorado. She _wants_ to win—always has, always does. It feels like she’s been awake for days instead of hours. There are still dried, flaky pieces of dough along her cuticles and she’s pretty sure there’s almond crumble in Brad’s hair. 

It had been too long since she’d last cooked—_really_ cooked—in the kitchen with Brad. Everything about him made him the perfect kitchen partner for her. Brad had rolled with every one of her eccentricities: each whine, each demand, each critique, each frantic high-pitched plea for him to listen, each command to him to just sit back and follow her lead.

But he’d also kept her sane, joking with her and reminding her what their true task was—the perfect Thanksgiving pie, not some local pie competition. It didn’t mean Claire still didn’t want to _win._ When she’d said as much, the exasperated, affectionate smile he’d sent her way made her duck her head and twirl her braid around her finger.

With the pies still boxed up and a little warm in the center, Rhoda was shoving them into an Uber with their overnight bags and the promise of seeing them in a few days in Cape Code, a too-innocent look on her face when she leaned in close and told Claire to have fun and knock ‘em dead. 

“Do we have a plan for when we land? Do we check-in to the hotel first? Or do we head to the fair? Or do we—“

The mouthful of Cheez Its in her mouth shocks her as she stares into the mirthful, amused eyes of Brad Leone.

“Re_lax. _You’ve been up since, what? Six? Get a couple hours’ sleep and let me and Hunzi take care of what we do when we land, okay? We’re the pros here,” he reminds her. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” she tells him, finally swallowing the mouthful of cheese crackers and settling back into her chair. “I feel like a wreck.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you got me, Claire.”

She smiles at him, soft and warm and open—_thankful._ “Yeah, I do.” She wiggles down in the chair, checks the pie between her feet one more time, and closes her eyes. “Okay, relax. I can relax.”

The huff of laughter to her right makes her peek open an eye at Brad, frowning. “Hey, I’m trying.”

He leans over, tugs her coat over her lap like a blanket, tucking her in. “You’re doin’ great,” he reassures her with only the hint of teasing in his voice. “We got a few hours before we land.”

His hand lingers on her forearm and she covers his hand with her own, fingertips pressing down in gratitude. 

“Thanks, Brad.”

She means thanks for keeping her sane, for trusting her, for being there for her, for being him. From the way he smiles at her softly, she thinks he heard exactly what she meant.

When she finally lets herself drift to sleep for an hour or so, her head lolls to the side and rests against his arm, her cheek pressed against his soft, worn t-shirt. He closes his own eyes, rests his cheek against the top of her head and lets the warmth and affection he feels for her fill him up. 

(Kevin snaps the picture, considers posting it to Instagram with a clever caption about tuckered out pie competitors when Hunzi plucks the phone out of his hand with a shake of his head. He’s starting to understand the rules of the kitchen as it pertains to Brad and Claire and it apparently means not acknowledging the _thing_ between them.)

The embarrassed, mortified look Claire gives Brad when she wakes up and uses the sleeve of his own t-shirt to wipe the thin line of drool she’s left on his bicep and the teasing name-calling Brad throws her way is the beginning of the end of their friendship and the beginning of something new. 

__________________

Saying goodbye to Brad at the Colorado airport is harder than it should be, she thinks. They’d lost the pie competition—and she’s not bitter and upset about it, she _isn’t._

(Except she is, but Brad and the entire Bon Appétit Kitchen knew this and accepted this side of her, so this is on them for putting her in a competitive setting.)

She hadn’t really considered—hadn’t _allowed_ herself to consider—what hanging out with Brad one-on-one outside the kitchen would be like. Her feelings aren’t so foreign to her that she doesn’t know _why_ she doesn’t consider it. Once she lets her mind wander, once she allows herself to _want_, she can’t stop herself. 

It’s why she’s suddenly finds herself leaning her forehead against his arm at every opportunity: hiding her face against him as the pie winners were announced, pressing her forehead into his back as they wait in line for the high swing ride, sleepily using him as her support at the end of the day when her stomach full of egg rolls, fudge, and turkey legs had caught up to her. 

(“Claire, you have the appetite of a twelve year-old. Startin’ to see why they made you the host of Gourmet Makes.” A pointed bite of her cotton candy in his direction had been her only response.)

Because now she _knows_ that he’s solid under her if she leans her weight against him, knows he’ll be there as her rock if she slips or falls asleep on him. And now that she knows, she wants.

The crew had mostly faded into the background at the fair, following them around and just watching as Brad and Claire traipsed around the park, recording Claire doubled over in hysterics as Brad tried to fit all 6’4” of himself into the tiny swing; Brad puffing his chest out and wielding the hammer for the strength meter game to win Claire a teddy bear with a tiny chef’s hat on it; both of them pigging out in the food hall, their hands full of fried junk food and smoked meats, passing paper boats of greasy, sugary food back and forth and demanding that the other try what they had picked. 

At the end of the day, Claire had found herself feeling off-kilter. It wasn’t until she was alone in her hotel room that day, the tiny bear in his chef’s hat and the stuffed donut she’d won for herself propped up on the bedside table, that she’d realized she’d been expecting him to make a _move_ the whole day: a stolen kiss, his hand slipped into hers.

And now she feels like the universe has robbed her, given her the perfect first date without the perfect ending. 

So here they are in the Colorado airport, saying their goodbyes with their relationship shifting and Claire _wanting, wanting, wanting._

Brad shuffles his feet, hitches his backpack up over his shoulder. “So, you’re flyin’ to your parents’ and, uh, I’ll fly home, get the rest of the crew, and meet you there tomorrow, right?”

She tucks her hair behind her ear, nodding. “Yeah, that’s the plan.” 

She wonders if her disappointment that he isn’t just coming straight home with her is evident in her voice, if he can tell that she doesn’t want to get on this plane without him. 

“Not a bad first outing for you, Saffitz,” he comments. “Maybe Rapo will give you the green light to come co-host a _Going Places_ ep with me and Hunzi.”

“I’d like that,” she says with a soft smile. Around them, travelers rush around frantically looking for their gate and trying to catch their flights. The BA video and sound crew are already at the gate on the other side of the airport, waiting for the plane to take them home to New York. Claire’s the only one separating from the group and going her own way and Brad certainly wasn’t about to let her wait on her own. 

She doesn’t register the frantic energy around her, not with Brad taking up her space, her time, her attention. For the first time in her life, she feels eerily calm, no sense of anxiety, as she waits for her the announcement that her flight is boarding. 

Brad reaches out and brushes a finger over the soft plush of her chef teddy bear peeking out of the side pocket of her backpack. “We had fun,” he says, voice suspiciously light and his eyes focused on the bear he’d won her. 

“Even though we didn’t win anything,” she adds.

“Even though,” he concedes with a grin. And then he drops his hand, stuffs them into his pockets and looks uncertain. “We made a pretty good team. Maybe…maybe we could do it again sometime. Saffitz and Leone take the New York pie competition scene or something. What do you think?”

Surprise takes her, butterflies and nerves erupting in her stomach and floating up into her throat. She ducks her head, tucks her hair behind her ear. It feels like the universe is finally correcting what was missing from the previous night, creaking open a possibility she’d thought wasn’t open to her. 

The answer is on the tip of her tongue, an emphatic _yes_, when the flight attendant at the gate announces her flight to Cape Cod is boarding and her group is up. She glances behind her at the rush of people clamoring to board the plane and curses the universe when she sees Brad’s grin falter as he takes a step back, waving at her. 

“See ya tomorrow, Claire,” he tells her. “Have a good flight and try to relax, huh?”

He’s gone, disappeared into the throng of people dashing around the airport. She follows his baseball hat until he turns the corner back to his own flight, regret at her inability to decide faster stinging bitter in her mouth.

And still, she wants. 

(On the flight to Cape Code, she misses him beside her and doesn’t relax the entire four hour flight, anxious for what the weekend will—or will not—bring.)

__________________

Something has changed between them—almost but not quite—and when she greets him at her parents’ front door, she hesitates for a moment unsure if she should hug him as she has hugged everyone else in greeting. 

Brad makes the decision for her, though, and brushes by her with a hand on her hip, already worming his way into the living room and searching for the nearest rocking chair and can of ice cold beer. 

(Claire tries not to be disappointed at the missed opportunity to feel his arms and chest against her body. She tries even harder to not panic and read too much into his decision to _not_ hug her.)

But when she turns the corner to find her friends and coworkers waiting for her in the living room, something soft and warm seeps into her veins at the sight of Brad barefoot and relaxed, legs splayed open and leaning back in her favorite rocking chair. 

“Our fearless leader,” he cries out in greeting, grinning at her. His energy fills her home and something about sliding into the rocking chair next to him, addressing their friends and creating a game plan for their Thanksgiving feels so distinctly _right_ that her breath catches in her chest for a moment. 

It’s too chaotic after that to focus on her shifting relationship with Brad Leone (and she carries the feeling of his foot brushing against hers while they rock in their rocking chairs with her into the kitchen). 

__________________

Claire settles into the kitchen easily. This is _her_ kitchen in _her_ home. She runs a tight ship, schedules out everyone’s prep times and oven times. Her mom teases her about being bossy in the kitchen and everyone in earshot drop their eyes, doesn’t comment or confirm.

But Brad slides in next to her, nudges her shoulder with his, and charms her mother by agreeing wholeheartedly. 

“Oh, Mrs. S, you have _no_ idea. You should see the way Claire treats me in the kitchen.” He puts on an affectation of her voice, a little more high-pitched and batting his eyelashes dramatically. “‘_Brad, can you get me that torch? Oh Brad, can you get me the sprinkles? Brad, butter this pan for me.’”_

She slaps his arm, a mix of outrage and amusement curling her lips upwards into a smile. “Brad! That is not—You’re such a—_Mom!_ That’s not how I am. Brad! Tell her!”

He shakes his head, puts a hand over his heart, makes prolonged eyes contact with Sauci Saffitz. “Mrs. S, I’d never tell a lie.”

“Oh Brad, honey, you don’t need to lie to me. I know my daughter.”

There’s something in the way that her mom says _I know my daughter_ and the way she looks between she and Brad that makes Claire’s cheeks flush pink. She shoves a plate of radicchio into Brad’s hands and pushes him towards the back kitchen counter. 

“Why don’t you go clean and prep these, Brad?” she says pointedly, desperate to get him away from her mother’s knowing eyes.

“You see! You see how she treats me! _Bossy.”_

_“Brad!”_

Brad’s and her mother’s laughter fills the kitchen in a way that makes everything feel like Thanksgiving—even if it is September. 

__________________

(When she, Molly, Chris, Christina, and Rick leave to go clamming, she pretends to not feel his eyes on her, looking over the sudden wealth of bare skin now visible to him for the first time, stopping at the milky white thighs that—to her delight—make him lick his lips. 

And later, when she leans over Molly’s shoulder to look at the video she grabbed of Claire coming up from beneath the bay water’s surface, her coverup clinging to the curve of her stomach and breasts, rivulets of water making her water look ethereal, she grins and tells Molly to send her a copy of that video. She sends it to Brad with a winky face and a single text: _Wish you were here._

She receives a single response: a picture of Andy pointing into the camera, a look of frustration on his face. _Me, too._)

__________________

Thanksgiving is as chaotic as it always is and she’s not surprised, even if she’s disappointed, when they sit down to eat almost two hours later than planned.

After the footage for the episode is shot, the cameras are shut off and everyone relaxes a little more, takes bigger sips of their wine. The breeze off the bay rolls through the backyard, ruffling their hair and ushering in the evening. They chatter amongst themselves, complimenting each other’s cooking and skills, reflecting on the activities of the weekend. 

And then Brad stands, takes off his baseball hat, and raises his wine glass, clearing his throat. A hush falls over the table and he grins at each of them, eyes lingering softly on Claire. 

“Listen, uh, this wouldn’t be Thanksgiving if I didn’t tell you all how great I think you are, the great work you do in the kitchen every day is, uh, admirable and keeps me comin’ back every day, even when we fight and disagree—“

“Like family!” Carla chimes in, cheeks flushed from the wine and eyes glassy with emotion.

Brad nods and raises his glass. “Like family,” he echoes. Then, “I’m no good with words, you all know that. But what I’m tryin’ to say is, is—Is that I’m thankful for each and every one of you and I couldn’t ask for a better group of coworkers or friends.” A pause and then, “I couldn’t ask for a better family.”

He raises a glass to the resounding cheers and echoed sentiment from around the table, pausing for a moment as his eyes meet Claire’s from across the table. She licks her lips, smiling softly at him, and raising her glass to him, tilting the rim forward in salute, before drinking. 

Later, when they’re clearing and stacking plates from the dinner table, she nudges her shoulder with his. “Pretty good speech you gave back there. You know, for someone who claims they aren’t so good with words,” she teases.

He ducks his head, uncharacteristically bashful under her praise. “Yeah, well, when it matters, it’s a little easier to find the words.”

Before she can respond to that, he disappears into the kitchen with an armful of plates, leaving her behind breathless and hopeful for what the rest of the night may bring. The plates slip from her hands and clatter to the ground.

“Claire!” her mom calls out in exasperation, another broken plate to add to Claire’s wake. 

“Sorry! Sorry!”

She probably shouldn’t be trusted with fragile dinnerware with Brad around. 

__________________

Claire and her mom are in the kitchen clearing up the last of the mess, sink filled with suds, when Brad comes in, three full glasses of wine clutched in his hand.

“Mrs. S,” he says gallantly, handing her a refilled glass before turning to Claire. “And Miss S.” 

She laughs, nose scrunching, and takes the glass. “Thanks, Brad.”

He leans against the counter and sips at his own glass of wine. “Okay ladies, put me to work. How can I help?”

Claire shakes her head, scooches him out of the kitchen. “No, no, no. Go hang with everyone. My mom and I have got this. We’ll be done in a sec anyway.”

“You sure?”

There’s some strange, wordless communication that passes between them that Sauci sees as she sips her wine, watching her daughter and this man who seems to have captured so much of her daughter’s attention. Whatever is said between them in that worlds way softens and assures Brad and he beams at her, shrugging.

“Okay; but hurry up. We miss you in there.”

Claire rolls her eyes, shooing him away. “Save me a seat.”

“_Duh,” _he calls out over his shoulder, heading back for the living room and whistling. 

Still smiling, Claire turns back to her mom, catches a knowing, thoughtful glance on her face. She tucks her hair behind her ear self-consciously. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Sauci says. “Just starting to understand why all those newspapers and YouTube people think there’s something going on there.”

“What? Mom, it’s not like that…”

Except there _is_ something going on—at least, she thinks there is. 

“Claire, honey, there’s something there. The way you move around each other and the way you act around him?” Sauci drains her glass and rinses it in the sink. “It’s electric. Besides, you're such a bossy little thing, Claire, and that boy--"

"Oh my god, Mom. He's not a _boy_. He's _Brad_.”

"And that boy--" her mom continues, ignoring her, "Knows how to handle you. Just something to consider."

Claire’s hands slip on the last pan she’s rinsing in the sink as she stares at her mother incredulously. “Mom…”

“Just think about it,” Sauci reiterates. Claire stares after her mother as she kisses her cheek in goodnight. 

She doesn’t know how to tell her that lately it’s _all_ she thinks about. 

__________________

When Claire finally rejoins her friends in the living room, she finds them all in various states of sleep or near-sleep, stuffed to the brim with pie, alcohol, and an extraordinary Thanksgiving meal. 

Andy, Rick, and Chris are sprawled out on the couch, legs tangled up together in a semblance of a puppy pile. Molly and Carla are settled in the rocking chairs and Christina sits cross-legged in Claire’s favorite armchair. 

Confusingly, Brad is on the floor in a nest of blankets, back pressed up against the back of the couch. She frowns at him. 

“Brad, I told you to save me a seat,” she pouts.

“I did!” He grins and spreads his legs, patting the space between. She blushes, glances around the room, but eventually gives in, settling between Brad’s legs and nestling down into the blankets. 

She tries to not think about being cradled between his legs, his thighs pressed against hers, her back to his chest, the warmth of his breath ruffling the wisps of hair at the base of her neck. 

Exhaustion from the day catches up to her, the copious glasses of wine and thick slices of turkey and heaping piles of mashed potatoes settling in her stomach. Her eyes droop and it’s a struggle to keep them open, to follow the lackadaisical conversation flowing between her coworkers, their voices soft and sleepy, too.

Brad’s lips brush against the shell of her her ear, his big hand wrapping around her upper arm and tugging her back against him, as he whispers, “Relax.”

She goes without protest, too tired and too comfortable to fight it. He’s solid behind her, smells of warming spices and the holidays and _Brad_. When she finally dozes off, the last thing she remembers is his arm like a solid steel band slipping around her waist, anchoring her to him. 

There’s a moment—seconds, minutes, hours later, she doesn’t know—when she is roused just out of the edge of sleep. But when she turns her head, all she feels and smells is Brad: safety and comfort. She sighs and returns to sleep, content to trust that Brad will take care of her. He puts her on the now-empty couch with a soft instruction to keep sleeping.

“Gotta finish cleaning,” she mumbles. “And lock up. Mom’ll be mad.”

He huffs a laugh, smooths a hand over her forehead, pushing her hair back softly. “I got it, Claire. _Sleep_.” 

She’s sleepy and bleary-eyed and doesn’t have a fight in her to be a better hostess, so she nods and snuggles into the cushion and pulls the blanket he drapes over her up around her shoulders and beneath her chin.

When she wakes up next, everyone’s gone, the house is dark and quiet, and Brad is sitting at the end of the couch with her feet in his lap and his hand wrapped around her ankle, thumb stroking the curve of her ankle absentmindedly, while he flips through one of her dad’s woodworking books that he must have grabbed off the bookshelf. 

“Where’d everyone go?”

Her voice is husky with sleep and she rubs at her eye, clears her throat. Her question draws his attention to her and he glances over at her, smiling softly, and closes the book. 

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Morning?”

“Well, one in the morning, but still. Everyone wanted to hit the town before we head home tomorrow. Didn’t feel right leavin’ you behind so I volunteered for Claire-watchin’ duty.”

Her stomach grumbles in response and his eyes light up. “Please tell me that means you want midnight pie.”

“God, yes.”

She laughs at his exaggerated fist pump and swings her legs out of his lap, disentangles herself from the blanket and only trips a little on her way to the kitchen, Brad padding softly behind her, mindful of her sleeping mother upstairs.

Despite Brad not being much of a cake person—or a dessert person, in general—she’s glad that they have this shared love of pie in common. They both agree pie is truly a perfect food. 

Once in the kitchen, she hands him a fork but stop when she opens the fridge to pull out their pumpkin-pecan pie hybrid.

“Brad,” she says slowly, pulling the dish closer. “What happened to our pie?”

“_Welllllll_, Claire, you were asleep and everyone was gone and watching you was makin’ me hungry and—Okay! I had a couple of forkfuls.”

“A couple! Brad! Half the pie is gone!”

“Oh my god, Claire, it is not half. It’s like.....okay," he concedes. "It’s half. But Claire. It was _so_ _good_.”

“Can’t leave you unattended for five seconds.” She grins salaciously at him, eyes sparkling. “Does this mean I get to beat you with a wooden spoon?”

He laughs, hunches over the island on his elbows with his fork twirling between his fingers. “You can do whatever you like to me, Claire.”

There’s no denying the flirtatious tone there, but Claire doesn’t know how to volley that back. She sometimes feels like she missed a class somewhere in high school or college where everyone learned how to flirt. So instead, she ducks her head, pulls the pie out and slides it onto the island, both of them gathering around it and attacking the pie with their forks, plates forgotten.

He bats her fork out of the way, grinning mischievously at her. She fights right back, clinking her fork against his and battling him for the best piece of pie in the dish.

“You seem happy here,” he observes, watching her closely. She glances at him, slides the forkful of pie between her lips and chews happily before swallowing. They really did make a damn good pie. 

“I am,” she agrees. “Lotta good memories here.”

“You ever think of moving back?” 

His voice sounds a little too controlled, a little too pointed. It brings her up short, makes her stop eating pie, and consider him. 

“Move here?”

A single nod from him, his eyes glued to the half-eaten pie between them, is the only response she gets. She sighs, places her fork down. 

“No,” she reassures him. “New York is my home, it’s where my life, where everything is. But sometimes,” she searches for the words. “Sometimes the city is too much for me. It makes me feel all panicky and trapped.”

He nods enthusiastically, like she’s given him a helpful hint to solving a puzzle. “Yeah, yeah I get that. S’why I go fishing and camping. It’s nice to get out from the walls of the city, get back in touch with Mother Nature.”

“You’re such a hippie,” she teases, already sensing a speech about the power of nature and the universe and human beings needing contact with dirt and bugs and trees. 

“More like a hip-_pie,”_ he stresses, holding up a massive bite of pie before wrapping his lips around the fork. She shakes her head at him. 

“Brad, that was terrible and didn’t even make sense.”

“Made you laugh, though,” he points out, batting his fork against hers, encouraging her to pick her fork back up and rejoin him in their pie eating adventure. 

“You always make me laugh,” she counters. It’s true. In a stressful kitchen and under stressful shooting conditions, Brad is the one she counts on to be there for her, to turn her mood around. 

“I know.” 

There’s a lot of affection in his answer and she looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes, swallowing the piece of pie in her mouth, and thinking of what she’s supposed to say next to break the silence settling over them.

It feels like they’re on the verge of _something, _some breakthrough. When Brad reaches out with a shaky thumb to wipe at the pumpkin filling at the corner of her mouth, she realizes everything is finally going to change. 

“Oh,” she breathes out. 

“Claire…”

His fingertips creep up her cheek until the edges of his fingers scratch at her temple, his palm cupping her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed even as her heart flutters in her chest and she leans into his touch.

“What are we doing?” she whispers in the quiet space between them.

“What we shoulda done in Colorado,” is the last thing he says before he kisses her. 

Claire’s toes curl against the cool tile of the kitchen floor when he slants his mouth over hers, sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and slides his tongue over hers. The kiss is warm, their mouths taste of pumpkin pie and sticky pecan topping, and as far as first kisses go in the waning months of summer, it’s one of the best she’s had. 

Brad fits against her as easily as he fit in her home, in her life, in his spot at her station in the test kitchen. He glides his mouth over hers over and over again, fingertips sliding down the column of her neck and pressing into the thudding pulse point there.

She shifts against him, winds one arm around his neck to deepen the kiss and the other around his waist, bunching the fabric of his t-shirt in her hand and tugging, fingernails scratching at his sides. When he breaks the kiss, pants her name, and ducks his head to pepper kisses down the column of her neck and dips his tongue into hollow of her throat, she tosses her head back to give him more access. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pants against her skin, teeth grazing the straining tendons in her neck. She groans in protest at his slowed motions, slips her palms beneath his t-shirt and slides over the skin of his lower back where he is impossibly hot. The thought of all that warm skin against hers, pressing her into the mattress and wrapping her up in everything _Brad_ makes her shiver. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, fingernails scratching at the hair at the base of his neck. 

He kisses her softly, tempers some of the heat of their previous kisses and wandering hands. Despite the gentleness of the kiss, heat and wetness make themselves known between her legs and she presses her thighs together for relief—a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by Brad.

He groans, presses their foreheads together. “I want this, okay, believe me. But I don’t want to rush this. You’re not—This isn’t—I don’t want one night with you, Claire. I kinda think I want ‘em all.”

She blinks, stares into his bright blue eyes—all earnest and honest and open. Tears sting at her eyes and he looks horrified for a moment, absolute panic settling in. 

“Shit, Claire. Don’t, don’t cry. I’m _sorry._ Did I misread this? I thought—Fuck, I thought you—“

Her mouth on his stops him from rambling and he lets out a little _mmph_ of surprise, sinking into the kiss as she rolls her hips against his, licking at his bottom lip and fingers dragging through his scratchy beard. 

“You really do know what to say when it matters,” she murmurs, breaking the kiss before kissing him again softly, gently. 

He gathers her up in his arms, tugs her close and drapes himself around her like her own personal barrier against the world. She buries her nose in his chest, inhaling deeply. His arms are tight and heavy against her and she feels safe, she feels like she could stay here forever and be happy. 

Claire feels his lips pepper soft kisses to the crown of her head, nuzzling against her hair. She tilts her head up, offers her mouth to him. He grins, kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then finally, her mouth. 

It’s the softest kiss she’s ever received and she feels it all the way down to her toes. She curls her fingers in his shirt and kisses him back just as softly. 

“Now what?”

He considers her question, her need for a plan and a direction. He smooths a hand over her hair and kisses her again—something he knows he will never tire of in his lifetime.

“Now,” he announces, eyeing the half-eaten pie on the kitchen island with a grin. “Now we take that pie into the living room and put on _A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving._”

“Brad, it’s not _actually_ Thanksgiving.”

He hums, slides his hand into the back pocket of her jeans. “But it _feels_ like Thanksgiving,” he counters. “Besides, I just want an excuse to get you and that pie on the couch with me.”

She flushes at his words, presses her forehead to his chest. His open adoration and flirtation will take getting used to, but she feels pretty well equipped to handle the adjustment. 

“Okay, well, with that reasoning, I can’t argue,” she agrees, pressing a kiss to his chest through the fabric of his t-shirt. 

The journey from the kitchen to the couch is a precarious one as Brad makes every attempt to distract her, forcing her to drop the pie dish. He works his mouth over the curve of her ear, grazes his teeth over the nape of her neck, slips his hand beneath her shirt and palms her stomach to hold her against him. It’s battle of wills as he cages her against the wall, licks at the underside of her jaw and cups her breast in his hand. 

“Couch,” she gasps, pushing at his shoulders. “What happened to slow?”

“Fuck, slow,” he growls, kissing her again until he gets her to make the noise he’s already obsessed with—the one that starts high-pitched and needy in the back of her throat and escapes as a moan and a plea. When he hears it, he pulls away satisfied, to see her lips kiss-swollen and red. 

She pushes him toward the couch, tells him to put the movie on, and admires the curve of his backside as he crouches down to get the film started. The pie dish and forks is abandoned on the coffee table in the center of the living room. 

The opening strains of the movie’s score filter into the living room quietly as Brad settles himself on the couch, reaching out a hand to Claire and tugging her down on top of him. 

His hand settles on her stomach, his pinky stroking along the edge of her waistband. Claire tries to watch the movie, tries to concentrate—she does, honest. Brad is the most unfocused person she knows, except—apparently—when charged with the task of bringing Claire pleasure. Because right now, every inch of his focus is on her: his hands on her skin and dancing along her ribcage and hipbones, his lips on every inch of skin he can reach. 

“Brad,” she sighs, writhing and wriggling against him. She can feel him hard beneath her and she groans, turning in his arm, all movie pretense forgotten. She works her knees on either side of his hips, straddles him and leans down, kissing him deeply, her hair creating a curtain around them. 

“I know we said slow,” she pants, nipping at his bottom lip before moving to the fleshy part of his ear, sucking his lobe into her mouth. “But there’s something between slow and fast, right?”

She rocks down against him, whimpers at the feel of him hard and pressing against her where she’s wet and slick and wanting. His hands grip her hips, steady her as she works herself over his denim-covered cock. 

“Yes,” he gasps, his normally blue eyes blown wide and black with desire. “God, yes.”

She grins victorious.

Best Thanksgiving ever.

_________________

Sauci Saffitz comes downstairs in search of coffee and Thanksgiving leftovers the next morning to find a pot of coffee already hot and brewed. She frowns at the sight. Claire isn’t much of a morning person, never has been, and she has difficulty envisioning Claire waking this early for coffee. 

Nonetheless, she pours herself a cup of black coffee and sips at it gratefully. The sounds of Vince Guaraldi’s _Charlie Brown_ score catches her ear and she raises an eyebrow, following the sound into the living room. 

The sight before her stops her in her tracks. 

There, on the couch, is a shirtless Brad Leone with her daughter fast asleep on his chest, wrapped up in his arms and the blanket normally found on the back of the couch. Claire, she notices, is wearing the navy blue t-shirt that Brad wore yesterday. Brad is half-awake, palm stroking over Claire’s hair and the expanse of her back and shoulders rhythmically. 

She clears her throat softly and watches in amused delight as Brad’s head jerks in her direction, eyes going comically wide. 

“Uh, morning, Mrs. S,” he greets, cheeks turning pink. 

She sips her coffee with an arched eyebrow. “Morning.”

Brad swallows hard, barely resists making a comment about mother and daughters and similar expressions, but bites his tongue. He doesn’t make any move to get up or disturb Claire who is drooling and snoring softly against his chest. 

“Um, I can explain.”

“Oh honey, trust me when I say that there is no explanation needed.”

He looks uncertain. “There isn’t?”

She smiles and lifts the coffee in salute. “Saw this coming a mile away.” Her eyes drift to her daughter where she looks, for the first time in months, relaxed and happy. 

“Mother knows best?”

“Something like that,” she says softly, returning her attention to the man cradling her daughter protectively, caringly. “Welcome to the family, hon. We’ll see you back here for the real Thanksgiving in a few months, yes?”

Brad glances at Claire’s sleeping form on his chest, presses a soft kiss to the top of her head to soothe her. 

“You can count on it, Mrs. S.”


End file.
